Chapter Thirty-Three
SKYWRITING AND OTHER BAD IDEAS
Zayden
ONE MONTH LATER
“What about skywriting?”
Banks stares at me like I’ve suggested we rob a bank. “Skywriting.”
“Yeah. You know, the plane thing. Writes words in the sky.” I motion with my finger.
“I know what skywriting is, Zay. I’m questioning your sanity for suggesting it.”
We’re sitting in a booth at an overpriced steakhouse downtown, supposedly having a “guys’ lunch,” but really, I’m interrogating my best friend about romantic gestures because apparently, I have no idea what I’m doing.
“What’s wrong with skywriting?”
He lifts one brow. “Besides the fact that it’s tacky, weather-dependent, and she might not even be looking up at the right moment?” Banks takes a long sip of his water. “Nothing. It’s perfect. Go for it.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
“You asked for my opinion. My opinion is that skywriting is stupid.”
I slump back against the booth. “Okay, fine. What would you do?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Propose.” He shrugs. “Marriage isn’t really my thing.”
“That’s incredibly unhelpful, Banks. I’m asking you to use your imagination.”
“My imagination is telling me to order another steak.”
I drag a hand down my face. This was a mistake. I should have asked Archer—he’s married, he’s done this before. But Archer talks too much, and the last thing I need is the whole team knowing I’m planning to propose before I actually do it.
Banks was supposed to be the safe option. The vault. The guy who doesn’t gossip or get emotional or make a big deal out of things.
Turns out he’s also the guy with zero romantic instincts whatsoever.
“Okay, let’s try this differently,” I say. “What do women like?”
“How would I know?”
“You’ve dated women.”
“I’ve slept with women. That’s different.”
“Banks.”
“What? I’m being honest.” He leans back, arms crossed. “Look, I’m not the guy you come to for this stuff. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do grand gestures. I show up, I do my job, I go home. That’s it.”
“You showed up at my house to warn me when the rumors started.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“That was crisis management. This is—” He waves a hand vaguely. “Romance. Not my department.”
I’m about to argue when movement near the entrance catches my eye. The hostess is leading someone toward the back of the restaurant, and I recognize the blonde hair immediately.
Winnie. Tori’s best friend. The yoga instructor Dana hired a few weeks ago—she’s been finishing up some training thing, but she starts with the team on Monday.
She spots me and waves, changing course toward our table.
I’ve met Winnie a handful of times now. Objectively?
Yeah, she’s gorgeous—tall, blonde, the kind of impossible-to-ignore pretty that’s going to cause problems when she starts working with a locker room full of hockey players.
Not my problem, obviously. I’m so gone for Tori it’s almost embarrassing.
But I’m already bracing myself for the chaos.
“Hey, Zayden!” She’s all warmth and energy, even in the middle of a Tuesday. “Fancy seeing you here. Is Tori with you?”
“Nah, I wish. She’s at the new clinic. Grand opening prep.” I gesture across the table. “This is Banks. Banks, this is Winnie—she starts with the team on Monday. Yoga and flexibility training.”
Winnie turns to him with that megawatt smile. “Nice to finally meet you. Tori talks about you guys all the time.”
Banks opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
I watch, genuinely fascinated, as the most stoic man I’ve ever known completely short-circuits. He just... stares at her. Jaw slightly slack. Eyes a little too wide.
Winnie’s smile falters, just a flicker of uncertainty. “Um. Hi?”
“Hi.” Banks’s voice comes out like sandpaper. He clears his throat. “I’m—yeah. Banks.”
“So I heard.” She laughs, a little awkward now. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you Monday. Should be fun.”
Banks nods. Just nods. Like he’s forgotten how words work.
“Okay then.” Winnie glances at me, and I catch the question in her eyes—is he okay?—before she recovers. “I’m meeting a friend, so I should run, but tell Tori I said hi!”
“Will do.”
She gives one last little wave and heads toward the back of the restaurant. Banks watches her go. For way too long.
“Dude.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You didn’t say a single coherent thing just now.”
“I said hi.”
“Barely.”
“I’m not—” He stops. Picks up his water. Drains half of it. “She caught me off guard.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She did.”
I don’t push it. But I file it away because I’ve known Banks for six years, and I’ve never seen him rattled by anything. Not enforcers, not playoffs, not contract negotiations.
But a five-foot-six yoga instructor with a nice smile just turned him into a malfunctioning robot.
Interesting.
“Can we get back to your proposal?” Banks growls. “Since that’s supposedly why we’re here?”
“Right. The proposal.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the notes app where I’ve been keeping a list of ideas. “Okay, so we’ve ruled out skywriting. What about... a flash mob?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Jumbotron at a game?”
“She’d murder you.”
“Hot air balloon?”
He considers this one, then shakes his head. “You’re afraid of heights.”
I sigh and scratch my temple. Banks just looks at me. That flat, unimpressed stare he’s perfected over years of shutting down reporters and overeager fans.
I take a sip of my water. “Okay, so I have a healthy respect for heights. There’s a difference.”
Banks continues his unimpressed stare.
“Fine. No hot air balloon.” I scroll further. “What about something simple? Cook her dinner, candles, get down on one knee?”
“Now you’re talking.” He nods once.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Tori’s not flashy. She doesn’t need a production. She just needs you to show up and mean it. Make it genuine and from the heart.”
“That’s... actually really insightful.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m just saying, for a guy who claims to have no romantic instincts—”
“I observe. I don’t participate.” He signals the waiter for the check with a subtle raise of his hand. “There’s a difference.”
There’s something almost wistful in his voice. I file it away but don’t push. Banks shares when he’s ready, which is basically never, and pushing just makes him clam up tighter.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Tori, with a photo attached.
It’s her standing in front of her new clinic—Wells Sports Medicine, the sign reads—grinning like she just won the lottery. The grand opening is this weekend, but she’s been over there every day this week, setting up equipment, meeting with potential clients, making sure everything is perfect.
Tori: Look what came in today!
Another photo. Business cards with her name on them. Victoria Wells, DPT, Owner.
Me: Those look amazing. You look amazing.
Tori: Flattery will get you everywhere, Bishop.
Me: That’s the plan.
Tori: Maisie’s asking if you can pick up goldfish crackers on the way home. The pizza ones, not the regular ones. She was very specific.
Me: Tell her I’m on it.
Tori: My hero.
I’m smiling at my phone like an idiot, and I don’t even care.
“You’re disgusting,” Banks says.
“Jealous?”
“Of that dopey look on your face? Hard pass.”
But there’s something in his voice that makes me glance up. He’s looking toward the back of the restaurant again, where Winnie is sitting with someone I don’t recognize—a woman, probably a friend—laughing at something on her phone.
“You sure about that?” I ask.
“Positive.” He stands, tossing cash on the table. “Now let’s go. Some of us have things to do.”
I follow him out, but not before catching one last glimpse of Winnie. She looks up at the exact wrong moment, catching Banks staring, and something passes between them—electric and brief—before he turns away.
Yeah. He’s definitely screwed.
But that’s a problem for another day. A problem for Banks to figure out, whenever he’s ready to admit he has one.
Right now, I’ve got goldfish crackers to buy, a proposal to plan, and a woman waiting for me who somehow turned my whole life upside down and made it better in the process.
I pull out my phone and jot a note in my proposal planning list:
Cancel skywriting.
Then, after a moment:
Simple. Genuine. From the heart.
Show up and mean it.
Banks might claim to be useless at romance, but he’s not wrong about this. Tori doesn’t need grand gestures. She doesn’t need skywriting or jumbotrons or hot air balloons. She just needs to know I’m not going anywhere.
My phone buzzes again.
Tori: Also Maisie says to tell you she loves you. And that you’re “the best daddy in the whole world.” Direct quote.
My throat goes tight. I blink against the sudden sting in my eyes, standing on a Manhattan sidewalk like an idiot, completely undone by a secondhand message from my six-year-old.
Me: Tell her I love her too. And that she’s the best daughter in the whole world. Also a direct quote.
Tori: She’s reading over my shoulder and giggling. Now she’s doing a happy dance. It’s very cute. Hurry home.
Home.
I pocket my phone and head for the car, a smile stretching across my face that I couldn’t suppress if I tried.
I’ve got a woman who somehow turned my whole life upside down and made it better in the process. A daughter who thinks I’m the best daddy in the world. A future that looks nothing like I planned and everything like I never knew I wanted.
And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving I deserve every bit of it.